


Until We Are Free

by starafires



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Pyre AU, characters that normally don't interact are going to somewhere along the way, niche! crossovers! now!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starafires/pseuds/starafires
Summary: Life does not end with exile. Words pass around that no one is quite what they seem. Wagons cross desolate plains and deadly tempests avoided by most sensible folk, with purpose known only to the masked individuals that ride it.Quirrel is starting to suspect they're infiltrators in an old system, new gears in an aged machine that will either break with their addition, or operate with renewed vigor.





	Until We Are Free

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to my buddies for encouraging me to post this because i would've been terrified to otherwise (i mean, i'm still anxious, admittedly, but a little less so)
> 
> if you're not familiar with Pyre, hopefully this won't be too confusing for you! i'm trying to keep a balance of not alienating the audience while still keeping it fresh and non-regurgitated for people that are familiar

“You said you found a wagon?” Quirrel winces when he takes long strides over the dunes, the patched wound in his side still fresh, his rescue from the Sclorian River still recent. Trailing behind the Harp that saved his life, he hardly had a moment’s rest since he regained consciousness. He would like to, yes, but the day grows dim, and already he is hearing the scutters of things that lurk behind the Sandfolds. He frowns and clutches at his side. The thought that they might’ve smelled his blood through the bandages was a passing one, a little ridiculous at best, but it stays long enough to make him wary.

“Yes, though half-buried,” the Harp replies. Quirrel has yet to know her name, nor has she yet to know his. “It has been abandoned for a while, but we will find use in it yet.”

The Sandfolds are unremarkable on their own, essentially featureless. Yet the wrought iron cages and the countless corpses (some reduced to bone, some no more than a few days old) that wash up on the shore make the windy silence of the day take on a rather haunting quality. He has walked farther than most ever could, thanks to the mercy of someone who arrived just in time, and for that he considers himself lucky.

(Before they left the shores, he spotted a woman slumped over the open mouth of a cage, pierced through her midsection by an iron bar torn into a deadly spike from the descent. He wondered, then, if he were just a little less lucky, if that could’ve been him.)

When they reach the blackwagon, it is certainly as abandoned as the Harp described. Sand pours into the doorway, the wheels submerged. The two of them would have have to dig it out tomorrow. The windows are either cracked or broken entirely, and everything he can see has some form of wear and tear from the elements. There’s a layer of dust on the heavy robes hung along one of the walls, cobwebs on the shelves, handprints all over the stack of tomes, a pile of junk on one corner of the wagon...

Quirrel picks up one of the heavy tomes. He runs his finger on one of the handprints. There’s no dust. He cants his head in the Harp’s direction. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Hornet,” the Harp replies from the common room of the wagon.

“Quirrel. Well met, Miss Hornet.” He puts the book down, now looking over at the pile of junk. It’s recently made, if the not-withered flower topping off the pile was evidence of anything. “I think someone has already made a home here before us.”

Hornet joins him in the room to see what he has noticed. “What—” Wood creaks from the entrance. Both of them turn, and see nothing but the sandy expanse outside. Hornet heard it as well, so he couldn’t have imagined it. Had the mysterious occupant returned? They both step out, scanning the area, but still no one to be seen.

“Ah, hello?” Quirrel calls out. No response. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We thought the wagon had been unoccupied. I—” A thud comes from inside the wagon. He steps back inside, though he notices Hornet does not join him.

“I assure you,” he tries again, “we mean no harm!” He takes a few more steps forward, closer to the common room. The flower has drifted to foot of the pile, he’s noticed. “We would like to use this wagon as well. Perhaps we can reach an agreement?” Another thud, this time from outside once more. Then comes rapid steps, a cry from Hornet, shuffling, and then silence. Quirrel rushes out, and in Hornet’s talons, a child sporting an animal skull on their head like a helmet, lifted by the scruff of their cloak.

The Downside is reserved for the Commonwealth of Hallownest’s worst criminals, enemies, and traitors. The child’s presence here, he believes, isn’t any fault on them, but rather on the governing powers that casted them down here.

“You,” Hornet sighs, “are an elusive little ghost.” The child, in turn, looks up at Hornet, and merely tilts their head. There’s something gathered up in their arms, he’s noticed. It’s wrapped up in their cloak, making it impossible to tell what it is.

And it seems they’re not alone. A sizable gaggle of...odd, small, winged creatures catch up to the child, now huddled under them and making noises of concern and curiosity. The child then trashes under Hornet’s grasp, apparently having enough of being dangled by the scruff. She lets go. They land right on top of the gaggle, the creatures squeaking out like ragged toys. It doesn’t phase them, as they right themselves quickly and head inside. Then, they pull out a large bowl from under one of the benches, and unravel their cloak. A variety of berries pour out, and they then step back once finished. The creatures cheer as they descend on the bowl. Finally, they turn back to Hornet and Quirrel, their primary concerns taken care of.

“My apologies, friend.” Quirrel gives a placating smile. The child only tilts their head. “I’m Quirrel. My companion and I intended to use this wagon, but we didn’t expect anyone to be here before us.” No response. One of the creatures flies up and perches on the child’s shoulder, mimicking their head tilt. “You won’t be kicked out, if that is your concern.” They continue to stare. With the way the child looks up at him, he now catches sight of markings on their neck. He would assume it was a brand, much like the one burned on to his own hand, but it looks less like scars and more like a tattoo. Strange. If he remembers correctly, the simple pattern mimics the ones he’s seen on people like—

Hornet steps forward. “Little ghost. We seek a way out of the Downside, and this wagon is essential to that. Join us if you wish, but we make no guarantees for your own freedom.” Even so, the child seems to be satisfied with that, finally breaking their gaze to go sit at one of the benches. Quirrel takes that as the end of the conversation, and a chance to finally rest.

* * *

 The child—Little Ghost, as dubbed by Hornet—lended a helping hand in digging up the blackwagon from the sand the next morning. The creatures—drive-imps, not dubbed by Hornet—watched from the sidelines and cheered on in support.

Quirrel catches Ghost staring at him at some point, or specifically, his left hand, branded with the Reader’s Sigil. Did they know what it meant? He recalled the handprints on the books. Did they understand, or were they simply curious? When their eyes met his, he meant to ask, but Ghost darts their eyes to something else on his person, and points to it. It happens to be his patched-up wound. His shirt is still torn and stained with blood at that spot, and that alone could be cause for concern, but he sees the diversion for what it is.

“I’m alright now, my friend.” He humors them anyway. “Hornet did a fine job tending to it, no need to worry about me.” Ghost turns back to digging, though he notices them taking a quick glance at his brand once more.

The sun is high when they free the wagon from its sandy prison. As takes a well-deserved rest on one of the stools, he can only hope that the wagon will return the favor in due time. Speaking of which…

“Hornet,” he calls from across the room. “You seem very certain this wagon will aid us in leaving the Downside.”

Hornet inspects the dusty raiments along the wall, clutching a bird-like mask in her talons. “The Matriarchs only told of it in secret, but they spoke of how few of them, shrouded in masks and veils, found their way back into the Commonwealth, then returned to our deep nest in the mountains.” She stares down at the mask with scrutiny, turning it around and lifting it to her face. “They said they used the stars as their guide. I’ve tried, but the stars have eluded me so far.” Breathing out a sigh, she puts down the mask, then turns to Quirrel. “So I have a favor to ask, Reader. Read the stars, and direct us to freedom.”

Quirrel feels the need to back up at that. “Ah, Miss Hornet? I don’t think reading the stars is within my capabilities.” The practice tended to be reserved to those of the Astralist religion. He tried, as scholars are wont to do, but the stars, too, eluded him. Whatever the astralists saw, he failed to see himself.

Hornet narrows her eyes. “But you read, do you?”

“I can read a book, my friend, but you’ll find it’s quite different from reading the stars—”

Ghost tugs on his caplet. They’re not wearing their skull helmet, the rest of their face and mess of white hair now exposed. (When he looks between the child and Hornet, he thinks he sees a resemblance at first, but to assume they would be related would be rather presumptuous of him.) They take Quirrel’s hand, and place it on one of the heavy tomes that they placed beside him. Ah, he had meant to read one of the copies eventually…

He lifts the book, feeling its weight in his hands. From the way it is bound he identifies it as from before the literacy ban, yet the materials that binds the book are nothing he recognizes.

Quirrel looks at Ghost, and they return his gaze expectantly. He then turns to Hornet, opening the book. “I think our friend might have an idea.”

* * *

His vision failed him not long after that. When he regains consciousness once more, he finds himself no longer in the blackwagon, but rather standing among the old, blackened pages of the book. Hornet and Ghost stand to their feet as well, now dressed in those old, not-as-dusty robes. When he looks down at himself, he is wearing them too.

A voice thunders from above and echoes all around. It speaks in old, forbidden words.

**“Reader, these words are for you alone.”**

**Author's Note:**

> i have a pyre au tag on my art blog which has some doodles and designs, [check it out here](https://starafire13artblog.tumblr.com/tagged/pyre-au)


End file.
